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Page 95 - Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before. And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear, and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! And near him the she-wolf...
Page 100 - Father, dear Father, come home with me now! The clock in the steeple strikes one. You said you were coming right home from the shop, As soon as your day's work was done. Our fire has gone out, our house is all dark, And Mother's been watching since tea, With poor brother Benny so sick in her arms, And no one to help her but me. Come home, come home, come home! Please Father, dear Father, come home!
Page 95 - They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, She paddles her white canoe.
Page 105 - The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.
Page 110 - And such the trust that still were mine, Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine, Or though the tempest's fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death ! 4 In ocean cave still safe with thee, The germ of immortality ; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
Page 95 - And the boat returned no more. But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp This lover and maid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp. To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp. And paddle their white canoe ! MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL.
Page 106 - I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to: They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there, But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!
Page 80 - We've been tenting to-night on the old camp ground, Thinking of days gone by, Of the loved ones at home, that gave us the hand, And the tear that said
Page 106 - I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.